


Be Rough With Love

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [8]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Abortion, Cam pov, Canon Continuation, Dark fic, Discussion of Abortion, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Kinda canon compliant, Ori, Pre-the road not taken, Stranded, dark au, orici, uses set universe from "the Road Not Taken", ver isca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe. Eighth in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals specifically with the discovery of the Orici. Strong Adult Themes
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Words Are Easy

They’ve been together for five months when it happens.

To be honest this is all he’s ever wanted with her.

Since the moment he saw her as a blunt force trauma apparition outside of his cockpit, he dreamed of a life with her.

After he met her and thanked her, he needed to see more of her—at first to repay her for saving him, saving Earth—then to show her that this planet wasn’t all assholes who shot her and stomped all over her, who locked her away, barely keeping her alive until she became useful.

Then she gave him back his legs, and it’s something he’ll never be able to repay her for, and he didn’t think before he kissed her—as thanks, as a promise, because he really fucking wanted to.

A week later and he was bunking on base every night, but not in his own room. He was fooling around with her like they were teenagers. He was bringing coffee and doughnuts, teaching her how to play basketball and saving her from Jackson’s prolonged English lessons.

He was planning a house for them, was going to talk to Hammond about getting him a place within the mountain’s reach, a small one level, two-bedroom type deal with a backyard for barbeques.

Bet she would love the idea of a fourth of July barbeque.

But then they went on a mission and after fumbling around with the idea of sacrificing themselves, they ended up here, in this weird backwards medieval town where she wears these dresses that drape off her and billow around her and make her look absolutely amazing, and where he gets to be in the military for possibly more hours a day than he was before.

Where his one rest day a week is usually spent exhausted in bed not only from the long hours, but from the more than hour long trek to get to the canyon where they’re making ships to send to the nonbelievers’ galaxy, and he’s got to stand there and nod like it’s a good idea, like they’re not gonna shoot down his Momma, and everyone he cares about.

Like he didn’t sacrifice his legs twice for no good reason.

She’ll snooze beside him on that rest day because since she bashed her head off the ship console crash dummies style, she’s been feeling sick—puking, sleepy, dizzy. He thought it was some weird village virus that she didn’t have immunity to because she kept getting sick back on Earth from the bullet wound that wouldn’t heal, but also from a slew of bacteria she wasn’t used to.

But then she tells him, “I’m pregnant.”

They’ve been together five months, from kiss to this moment, and he’s not ready for it.

“What do you mean?”

She angles her head curiously, a bit amused at his answer. “I’m with child? Do Tau’ri call it something different?”

“No—it’s—” he licks his lips because they’re dry, his entire mouth is dry. “It’s the same.”

She blinks at him once, and with a patient lilt in her voice, questions, “then what don’t you understand?”

His hand has engulfed the lower part of his face, and he can feel his skin growing red, sweating, because this must be a bad dream, this must be a rest day and he’s gonna wake with her draped across his chest and sigh in relief and kiss her shoulder.

“The part where you’re pregnant.”

“Darling, if you don’t know that by now,” laughs and tugs at the side of her dress so she can sit comfortably on the edge of the bed.

“Okay.” Sees her game, drops his hand and marches towards the bed, standing in front of her. “I guess I’m just a little confused because you said you couldn’t get pregnant.”

“I can’t.”

“But you are.”

“Yes.”

“Can you not see how this is confusing?”

She exhales, reaching forward and slipping her hand into his, doesn’t pull him to sit beside her or anchor him in place, just wants to be linked to him—in more than one way. “When Qetesh had control of my body, she made my womb a very inhospitable environment where no life could grow.”

“But you’re saying one is growing in there now.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you want the list?” Doesn’t answer her with words or a humorous response to match her own, instead just stares, emotionless until she huffs, retrieving her hand from his and using the fingers to count on. “I’m nauseous, I’m tired, my breasts are sore, we’ve had gravy on everything the last seven nights because I’m craving it, I’ve missed two of my cycles, I—”

“Okay, I get it.” Runs a hand over his face, trying to concentrate on the sound of other villagers in the square, but all he hears is kids playing and his ears start to ring.

“You’re unhappy about this?”

“Well, I’m not celebrating, Vala.” Immediately her expression flickers to one she usually wears around other people, one of reproach and shame. “I mean, if there was a chance this could happen, there’s things we could have been doing to prevent—”

“When the Tok’ra returned my body to me, they told me the damage could not be repaired. That I would never birth a child.” The passive, upbeat tone in her voice leaves, and instead she sounds mechanical, like this is a speech she’s rehearsed hundreds of times. “This is why I didn’t tell you until I was sure.”

He sits beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress. “So, you’ve never pictured yourself with kids?”

She won’t look up from the ground. “No.”

“Neither have I.”

The children continue to play in the square, but the noise is dying down. The fire crackles in the hearth below the loft’s ledge, and every so often, water drips from the tub faucet.

When she doesn’t continue the conversation, he knows he has to.

“We can’t have baby here, Vala.”

There’s another pause and he can hear her breathing, her chest stretching against the tight dress, tight for another reason now, and it must be so uncomfortable for her.

“We can’t raise a baby to believe in the Ori. We can’t have them believe something else. Keeping up the act is easy for us, but they won’t be able to know who to trust.”

Briefly, the thought of a little boy with black hair and blue eyes speeds through his head, a toddler telling people of overheard conversations, him coming back from the military to find her burnt alive in that square.

He can’t have that.

He can’t have both and lose both.

He can have her and keep her safe.

He’s not greedy.

“They could get us killed.”

“I know that,” she snaps, shakily breathing while she wipes at a tear dangling from her eyelashes.

Wants to hold her, to comfort her. He doesn’t want to do what they have to, but it’s just another thing they need to do to survive. Just how he has to leave at sunrise, and she has to cook and clean and pray all day. They have to keep a cover if they ever hope of returning to Earth, of warning the planet.

But she always has to make the hardest sacrifice.

Wants to tell her that this isn’t fair and that if she really wants the baby he’ll hear her out, but having a kid here is basically signing their death warrants.

He cannot come back to her in that square.

He cannot lose her over some stupid mistake they made because he was completely enamored with her and she thought she was more broken then she actually is.

“Vala—”

“It’s fine,” sniffles up what’s left of her emotion and for the first time, her face becomes a mask, not because of physical pain but because of something else. Emotional turmoil, repeated exhaustion.

“I just—” grunts into his cupped hands, wanting to hide in the darkness. Not wanting to say words he doesn’t want to say. If they were back on Earth, he wonders if this would be a different conversation. Sure, the SGC is on his side, but they don’t trust her at all, and knocking her up wouldn’t be a great way to show her intentions or his.

“—I need to make sure we’re on the same page,” his words sieve through his fingers.

She doesn’t look at him.

Stands straight up, robotic, straightening the skirt of her dress, fixing it, and plucking it away from her torso, and he has to look away from her at that point. Her words are heavy, hitting him like fists in his gut as she walks away.

“I’ll get rid of it.”


	2. Women's Weapons, Water Drops

She barely talks to him now.

Doesn’t really know why, but he does.

He’s never seen himself with kids, switching his Mustang for an SUV, picking them up from school, buckling them into different evolutions of car seats, sacrificing his sleep to change dirty diapers.

She was straightforward with him the first time they had sex, as he held her waist stable with one hand and sifted through his bedside table for a condom with the other. Told him that she couldn’t get pregnant, and he trusted her, didn’t have a reason not to, so they never used any protection.

Have almost been together for six months now, had three months together before ended up in Ver Isca—a village he’s hates, with people he hates more, who talk to him as he walks home from a fourteen hour day, in the sun, in heavy armor, and smelling like a wild animal—people who stall him from coming home and seeing her even though she barely interacts with him now.

Understands because having a kid was never an issue to him before they had to get rid of one. He dwells on it more than he thought he would, deciding that the idea of having a kid back home is more appealing.

Having one here is a death sentence.

They either give up who they are and embrace Origin or risk an unknowing little mouth blabbing about their plans. Raising their kid to be Ori worshiping while they rebel isn’t ideal—there has to be another way, even if the best choice is starting to look like the worst.

“How’d the sewing circle go today?”

“Fine.” She pushes away from the table, starting to collect the dishes. Doesn’t correct that it wasn’t a sewing circle today but prostrations for six straight hours in the square.

He grabs the wooden bowl full of greens that he doesn’t know where she got. Thinks she’s started doing underground trading with the neighbors because when they go to the market to get food she doesn’t let him know what she wants to eat and just ambles by the stalls. Setting the dish by the sink, which is more of a wooden basin with the most basic plumbing he’s ever seen, he tries again, just to get her to answer a question. Any question. “Did you hear any more gossip about—”

“I’ve got this.” Doesn’t even look at him as she takes the bowl, putting the leftover greens onto a plate with whatever mystery meat they had for dinner. It’s really rare that they don’t have stew but eating the same thing for every meal starts to get tiring.

His lips press together, while he leans into what qualifies as a kitchen counter. “I don’t mind helping.”

“You’ve worked all day.” Starts dunking the dishes into the sink, using a basic soap that she said was made out of animal fat, and he really hates using it now. “Go sit down.”

“And what?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“I want to talk with my wife.”

The empty wooden bowl slams to the bottom of the sink and she shakes her fingers free of water, rubbing them on her apron—the same one missing a cut square of material—before pushing by him. “I’m not your wife, Cameron.”

Technically, she’s right, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt him.

Knows that she’s hurting enough or the both of them, understands why she’s acting the way she is, but thought it would blow over after a few days, then a week. Two weeks later and she’s still the same. But he loves her, so he doesn’t lash out because that won’t solve anything. “There’s a ledger in Seevis’s office that says different.”

“Cameron—”

“I can go get it if you want.”

She sighs, raising her eyebrows a bit, something she does when she’s been bested, something she does when she submits. “What do you want to talk about?”

“A lot of things.”

Sighs again, heavier, the patience leaving her. “Pick one.”

“Okay, how about—”

But the color leaves her face in a single breath, and she turns away from him, stampeding up the stairs. He’s at the bottom when the first retch comes. At the top with the second. Behind her with the third. Collecting her hair with the fourth. Trying to figure out what to say to her with the half-hearted fifth.

Wants to bring up the fact that they should have already dealt with this.

Offered to help as much as he could, but he’s away for over half the day, and the way this stupid backwards village works makes it dangerous for her to attempt to go anywhere alone, makes it weird for him to question anything about her health, and there are no doctors, or nurses, or healers—the closest they have is the oldest living woman who is barely qualified to be a midwife, and she already doesn’t like Vala.

So, instead, he reverts back to his humor.

“That was a big one.”

“All of my meals for the day.” She leans back on her heels, uses the hem of her apron to wipe at her mouth, her bottom lip falling into the missing slot.

When he offers her a hand, she shakes her head at him, pushing her hands against her thighs and standing in the tight room before pulling the chain for the toilet. “I swear this child knows what I intend to do.”

It’s not fun to talk about, but maybe it’s healthy?

Maybe it will help her cope with it.

Maybe it will help her see that they’re in this together.

“What we intend to—”

“No, Cameron, what I intend to do.” Presses by him with a huff to the sink, washing her hands. “We are not in this together.”

“Yes, we are.” Can’t help the stern tone that slips into his voice as he takes a step towards her.

“No, we’re—”

“Goddammit Vala, we would be if you would let me.”

Doesn’t want to be confrontational, or most of all, aggressive, but the whole situation is stressful. He just wants her to be happy and healthy. Wants to be with her back on Earth where he has a better chance of keeping her safe.

She arches an eyebrow at him in the mirror, her sight focused on something, and when he glances down to see, his hands are forced into fists at his side. He swallows, darts his eyes away with a huff to cover his shame, and shakes out his hands trying to calm himself. “I’ve always been here for you.”

“It’s undeniable that on Earth, we came to each other’s aid as much as we could.” She stops her step forward, her hand falling to her stomach, as she blinks, trying to focus. “But you didn’t experience what I did, Cameron. You weren’t shot and refused treatment. You weren’t treated as a war criminal, refused meals, showers, a bed, and light. You weren’t threatened, and abused, and ra—”

“I know.” It hurts him to hear it, even though he knows it all happened. “But it doesn’t mean I’m not—”

“Yes, it does.” For the first time in over two weeks, she looks him right in the eye. Glares right at him and he doesn’t know if it’s any better than her avoiding him. “It means that it is my body purging itself of a child. It is pain I will experience and need to recover from. You will be a bystander.”

Wants to tell her that he loves her, that he would do anything for her, but that having his baby, now, is a guaranteed death sentence, for them, for the baby, for everyone they care about back on Earth.

“I just—I want to help you in whatever way I can.”

She nods, her jaw set, and her eyes lose their sparkle, something she had even though she’s been pretty much ignoring him for the last two weeks. He knows he fucked up then—it’s the right thing to do, can’t let her die for something preventable, and they need to do it.

But he doesn’t understand why she hasn’t.

Why she doesn’t want to.

“You want to help?” Reaching back, her fingers plucks at the knot of her apron in sharp movements, and the material falls slack. She pulls it over her head, walks towards him, and slaps it against his chest. “Then take me to the tavern.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's King Lear


	3. Choice Breeds

He has to leave for a prolonged training period of up to a week.

The timing is the worst.

Away from her for a week, leaving her captive in that house—unless the neighbors suddenly decide that they like her again.

On the way up their sixteen-hour hike to a different canyon to train for active battle, one of the soldiers rebuffed his attempts at small talk. Apparently, Vala told the soldiers wife to go fuck herself when she started getting noisy about why Vala was getting close to Denya.

Of course, this made a lot more sense once he knew that Denya was the village prostitute, something Vala only told him after Denya sold her the herbs to abort the baby.

It’s not something he wants to think about. In an ideal world, it’s not something they would have to do, but they’re lucky enough to have each other, and that is more than enough to satiate him.

*

“I don’t want to go,” told her, standing at the doorway, his net of armor in a puddle beside him.

She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do, Cameron.”

He didn’t know if she took the herbs yet, it had been four days and her attitude and health didn’t seem to change. She was still puking pretty much nonstop, so he doesn’t think so. After she got the herb satchel from Denya, she told him if he wanted to help, he would wait until she wanted to talk about it.

All he could do was say, “okay.”

When he leaned in to kiss her goodbye, he expected her to turn her face away, maybe push him off, but he had to try because if something happened, he’d never forgive himself for not trying. She didn’t respond at first, and he thought she wouldn’t—but she did, kissing him back, touching the side of his face with delicate fingertips, resting her nose against his. 

“Please come back to me.”

“They’re gonna have to drag me away.”

That was five days ago, and now he’s happily walking home—running actually—because the training ended early—well, for him. He actually got something like a promotion because what they’re training him to do, he did when he was in his early twenties. Sure, he’s not as spry as he was then, but it’s just like riding a bike.

The neighbor’s wife greets him, sings his name and waves at him, a bit old time flirty with wiggling fingers and he arches and eyebrow in disbelief as he blatantly ignores her.

Before he slams closed the door, he hears her scoff.

“Honey, I’m home.” Calls all fifties style because he’s never had someone to come home to before—never someone he wanted to come home to so much—never had a wife before. Wonders if this is what it’s like to be in love, just constantly thinking about her, worrying about her, missing her, knowing her scent, her voice, her taste, finding comfort in all of it.

He could get used to it—just not here.

Drops his net of armor in a clanging pile, and starts toeing off his boots, noticing that there’s no movement inside the house. “Vala?”

The pit in his stomach grows deeper when the fireplace is empty, not of just a big pot of stew—her go to—but of fire. It’s starting to get colder, and she usually doesn’t even put the damn thing out anymore. There’s a single cup of tea on the table, green in color with a bundle of herbs at the bottom.

When he touches the cup, it’s cold.

But then hears the clang of the toilet chain and he sighs in relief as he hears the weak thrust of the wooden door swing open against the stone wall, and hard uneven footsteps following. He climbs the stairs almost two at a time, so he’s able to greet her as she turns around from washing her hands. “Hey—”

She says something, a word he doesn’t understand in another language—maybe Goa’uld—and throws a hand over her chest in surprise, reaching out with the other to steady herself against the stone wall.

She looks awful.

Worse than she did while she was battling that easily curable infection for a year. Her skin is gray, her eyes sunken. She has her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders even though she’s still in her nightgown.

“Cameron, you—”

“What happened?” Reaches for her and she just lets him because she’s so weak. Her skin has sweat all over it but she’s freezing. 

“Nothing,” she winces as she takes weak steps, leaning almost all of her weight into him.

Pulls back the blankets to a bed that doesn’t look like it’s been made since he left. There are some sweat stains on the fitted sheet, but she collapses onto the mattress before he has a chance to bring it up. She rotates to her side, bringing her knees up with a hand on her stomach, wrenching her eyes shut in pain, and he grabs her other hand, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“This isn’t—”

“I took the herbs.”

*

He spends the next few hours sitting beside her in bed, reading out what he can of the book of Origin, because it’s the only book he found on hand. She reels beside him, her legs kicking in pain as her hand presses into her stomach.

He’s never felt more guilty in his entire life.

Tells him it feels like she’s on fire.

Tells him it feels like she’s being eaten alive.

On hour three, she falls into a light sleep that she wakes herself out of by convulsing. He holds her still until she stops, biting his own lip and pleading with her to be okay. Smooths back her hair and tells her that he doesn’t think he needed someone, until he met her.

She becomes hard to wake nearing hour four, only answering him with a breathless echo of his name.

Sometimes the best thing to do isn’t the easiest.

He fears her leaving him so much, that he brought it to fruition through preventative measures.

He kisses her forehead, tells her to hold on, as he almost jumps down from the loft, bolting out the front door, and to the tavern down the street.

Opens the door with such force, that it bounces off the wall, and thankfully, it’s between mealtimes so the place is empty save for Seevis.

“Cameron,” the man greets him with a concerned expression on his face, stepping out from behind the bar. “I thought you were supposed to be at—”

“Where is Denya?”

“Slow down, my good man.” Seevis places his hands on his shoulders, and for the first time he realizes that he’s hyperventilating. “Just take a breath.”

“Seevis,” speaks what words he can between gasps. “Go get Denya now.”

“There are only two reasons you’d need to speak to Denya.” Seevis unhands him, ambling back towards the bar.

“Your point being?”

He grins wolfishly and pours himself another drink. “I just need to know if your wife will be available?”

“I’ll go get her myself—”

Starts to stomp into the backroom, where Vala explained to him, deadpanned, that’s where Denya entertains customers, like it was something he should know, and he realizes that he doesn’t know shit.

That he needs to start listening to her.

Realizes this is all his fault.

“So, the second option then.” Seevis tosses back his drink, smacking his lips once, then twice, then shouts, “Denya!”

The backdoor opens almost immediately, Denya stepping into room, wide-eyed and almost a bit haunted by his tone. “What—”

“Cameron’s wife is having the reaction.”

Denya’s face falls, and his eyes dart between her and Seevis, waiting for an explanation. “What reaction?”

But none comes.

She doesn’t say a thing before popping back behind the closed door for what seems like far too long a time. He’s about to complain when she just as quickly returns, holding another satchel in her hand. “Did she make the tea?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are her symptoms?”

“She’s—uhh—she’s sweating, I think she was convulsing, she can’t focus, her stomach is killing her—”

“No, the mixture is killing her,” Denya corrects, glancing at Seevis, who quickly glances away, like he’s not overhearing the whole conversation. He doesn’t really care right now about covering their asses. Funny how in an instant his priorities changed. “I told her the mixture can be fatal in—”

“Fatal!?”

“Cameron,” she touches his arm, draws his attention back to her.

“She can’t—you can’t—”

“Cameron,” beckons him again, trying to calm him, holding both his arms. “You can help her, but you must do exactly what I say.”

That snaps him out of it, he blinks, trying to sober himself. Packing away each word that she speaks.

“Make her a tea with all the herbs in this satchel. Let it steep for a quarter hour, no more or no less.”

“Okay.”

“Give her the night to recover, and in the morning feed her some weak broth. If she keeps it down, she’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Reaches for the satchel, uninterested in what will happen if she throws up the soup, because that won’t happen. She’s going to be fine because he needs her, God how he needs her.

“Cameron.” Denya keeps her hold on the bag. “There is one more thing you must know.”

“Okay.” Doesn’t drop his hold either.

“This mixture works because it interacts with the first,” she explains in delicate slow words, her eyes so wide, begging him to understand. “After giving her this mixture, if she drinks the tea to terminate her child again, she will die. There will be nothing I can do to save her.”

There go all of his plans, his schemes at keeping her safe, the double life they’ve built in a religious dictatorship. “So, you’re saying—” 

“If you want her to live—” her pause isn’t dramatic, but to give him a chance to comprehend her words, to understand the situation he’s agreeing to “—she will have to birth that child.”

It takes less than a second for him to snatch up the satchel, to mentally put a _for sale_ sign on his Mustang and buy the first beat up minivan he sees, and all eight evolutions of baby seats. “Steep for fifteen minutes, weak broth in the morning, I got it.”

Her eyes change, no longer sad or scared for him, but watching him like hundreds of faces watched from the audience as he gave compelling speeches—with admiration. Denya nods, staying stationary by her door, watching him leave.

“Congratulations,” Seevis jeers, partially drunk, and holding up his shot glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well

**Author's Note:**

> Story title borrowed from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.  
> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's The Passionate Pilgrim


End file.
